Best Politely Poems
I asked to my father
Baba, What is life?
He politely said to me, "Life is Duty ."
I asked to my mother
Maa, What is life?
She said to me with smile, "Life is Responsibility ."
I asked to my teacher
Sir, What is life?
He said to me with love, "Life is Education ."
I asked to my spiritual master
Gurujee, What is life?
He said to me with confidence, "Life is Devotion ."
Today my son who reads in class nine
Asked me
Babai, What is life?
I have said to him, "Dear, You are my life ."
(Father means BABA, BABAI and Mother means MAA in Bengali language. Gurujjee means spiritual master in Indian society)
I’m on my way into the grocery store
when I see him huddled near the shop doorway
In his outstretched hand
an empty coffee cup
I throw in a coin or two
smile, and ask his name
I’m Jack ma’am’ he says politely; and this is Benji ...
it’s only then that I notice a small brown terrier
his black nose poking out
from underneath a stained sleeping bag
Benji leaps up and wags his tail excitedly
at the mention of his name
I stoop down and he nuzzles my hand
I’ve a lump in my throat as I tell Jack
Benji reminds me of my dog Sam
who I lost last summer
Oh, how I miss the comfort of my pet
Jack’s blue eyes fill with tears
it's then I discover
he’s been on the streets for a few months
Benji’s my only true friend, he says
He’s never let me down -
not like my folks back at home
I can see Benji is well cared for
the exact opposite of Jack
who looks like he’s not eaten a square meal in days
I rise to do my shopping
and pass them both on the way out
I drop a brown carrier bag into Jack’s lap
he opens it like it’s Christmas Day
Inside are several pouches of dog food
and some substantial sandwiches
It is but a small gift,
yet I can see it means the world to him
he reaches up and touches my hand
I’m sorry son,
I wish I could do more to help
but I only have a small widow’s pension
I walk away,
knowing how fortunate I am
"This is no life, just a way of surviving another day"
I’ve had ups and downs in my life, but ...
“I've never been where they've been”
Writing Challenge 2, November - A Poem Meaningful - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode
Written on 10/7/19
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
More than a poet recording words,
not just rhymes on a page,
nor another verse in the wall of poetry.
We are the demolition crew,
swinging wrecking balls at the mundane,
the expected, the politely applauded.
We are the seekers of nirvana,
not in lotus poses and silent chants,
but in the scream of a dying star,
the whisper of wind through shattered glass.
Decay?
We embrace it.
The rot is fertilizer,
the rust, a pigment for our palette.
Society's leftovers,
the discarded dreams, the broken promises,
these are our archaeological digs.
We are miners sifting through the dust,
separating the divine's sparkle
from the fool's gold of false idols.
The pabulum fed to weary hearts?
We spit it out.
We are alchemists of absence,
builders of cathedrals from ash,
architects of soaring meditations,
born from the embers of what was.
We are more than penmen and penwomen.
we are purveyors of truth.
Two Silly Fools (at the coffee shop)
The shop was full
Only one seat to spare
Excuse me sirs, can I have a chair?
Why yes they said, smiles filled the air
They happened to be poets the same as me
Politely I asked, may I read a verse of thee?
They both rather meekly said
"If you really insist"
One said to me in such a small whisper
My poetry is not at all very good
As much as I wish it could and should
The other chimed in, is the same with me
I stared in surprise
Have I just met two of the dumbest fools?
I exclaimed in a manner rather short and abrupt
"You are the greatest fools I ever did see"
Rather shocked, they pushed back their chairs
I shouted sit; I am not done with my airs
You two fools better be quiet and listen
Cause I will say this but once, so I have written
Your poetry is of the highest caliber you see
You have the flow and the creative imagery
Darren and Rick need I say more?
Your hearts bleed poetry, is deep in your pores
Your poetry wakens the spirit in us all
If you want more you sure have some gall
Now writing as this, I wish it was me
For I look up to poets of such high degree
Now if I must tell you a truth to be told
Is me the fool, for being so bold
So now let’s sit and make if coffee for three
Of the happiest fools and great poets that be!
Notes: This was inspired by a chat I had with both Darren and White Wolf who for some bizarre and strange reason both doubted their talents and abilities as Poets. Needless to say, I gave them a word or two on getting those silly thoughts out of their heads! I find both of their poems to be diversified, well written, inspiring, contemplative and at times just plain fun to read. After all, it’s the read who is the final judge. I sincerely hope I have made them both smile!
I wrote two terrible poems last night.
Will this one be another?
I am looking at the clock.
It is time to leave and get the oil changed.
I read the sign as I pull in.
No Shirt, No Shoes, No Mask, No Service.
I don my mask before entering.
I greet the girl behind the counter.
Do I need an appointment?
I do not know all the rules.
She replies, walk-ins welcomed.
Politely takes my keys.
Just an oil change JC, I nod.
She knows me by name.
Not because of my Poetry.
It is just that I have been here before.
The service starts promptly.
Three now toil on my vehicle.
It used just to be one.
I am the lone customer in the reception area.
Tv still playing the same station.
No more free coffee.
My soul smiles, anyway.
I guess I should have expected it.
I start to listen to Janine Jansen, Vivaldi.
My earbuds are a no-name brand.
I wish I had my Audiophile headset.
But that would be rude.
The technician approaches me.
I was expecting this.
It is not a cabin filter this time.
That would only cost me an extra twenty bucks.
He explains I need my transmission fluid changed.
That is another One Hundred and Eighty bucks.
Shows me the samples he took.
I agree, and he says it will take a little while longer.
As I sit here listening to music.
My keys arrive twenty minutes later.
Drat, I still need a little more hope.
I was looking for one more concerto.
Time to pay as panic sets.
Did I forget my wallet?
No, it is here in my back pocket.
A wave of relief washes over me.
I am slowly returning to normalcy.
On the way home, I am thinking, Metallica.
1st place
BRIAN'S CHOICE 10,any form,any theme
Contest Judged: 5/30/2020 4:05:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
The little imp bawled lustily
as it lay in its perambulator
there by the water fountain
in a secluded garden
right in the middle of a concrete jungle,
disturbing my elevated thoughts
that churned and churned inside my mind
on how to kill those pesky flies
that infested my rundown abode.
It was no use for me
to kick any brilliant idea around,
so long as that pesky brat
disturbed the silence all around.
Why even the doves stopped cooing
and other birds stopped chirping,
whilst most decided that 'twas best
to search for a quieter place.
So I walked up to his comely nurse
sitting contentedly on a bench
and scratching my unshaven face
I quite politely asked
why the little cherub cry so much!
She looked me up and down
and down and up, no doubt
disgusted by what she discerned.
"Maybe he's seeing a devil,"
she replied, cooing at the cherub
that made its bright new pram
quiver with yelping wails.
"Or maybe he's thirsty,"
scathingly I replied.
Cherub my foot, I thought.
And sighing I slowly repaired
back to my solitary bench
and thought and thought on
how I could kill those parasites
that bothered me as much
as that little cherub in the pram.
They never saw me—not really.
Only the outline I traced in the halls,
A whisper of denim and shy glances,
A ghost who smiled too politely.
They passed notes like grenades,
Laughed too loudly
When the silence was breaking me.
I wore their words like a second skin—
Tight, blistering,
But invisible to them.
You asked if I was okay once—
But your eyes flicked away
Before the truth had a chance to crawl out.
Still,
That was kind,
Compared to the others
Who carved their stories into my name
Without ever asking for mine.
I screamed,
But only inside,
Where echoes get lost
In the ribcage's corners.
And when I disappeared,
They asked,
“Why didn’t she say something?”
As if silence isn’t something we’re taught
By the ones who pretend
They’re listening.
The maple leaf of autumn is now crisp crimson,
shortly ere sun-bronzed skin simmered lumened
I indulge with the saddened left behind to wither,
these not listful ears awaiting beckoning me hither
Hours freeze, minutes in tow, the world halts,
when pains chronic symptoms claim free of faults
Suspended in time lingering in liminal limbo,
indefinite neglect being its sanctified symbol
Decline is a beginning I politely pick up the pieces,
within my confines the endless summer ceases
As a recurring familiarity in the distant breaches
shadows sweep at dusk attaching as leeches,
feeding on a sueded soul, voiding bruised veins,
hallow numbness in my chest is all that remains
Love weeps salt tears brined with both joy and sorrow,
fasting with false hopes macerating raw tomorrows
Ache tests how much weight my heart can hold,
I’d glide into the dolostone matrix, I’d break the mold
What is shared binds two souls along with betrayal,
and only feeds this fervor, savior this is where I fail
Arrows dart freeing these eyes of debited desire,
through a heart, a flame that had once felt fire,
suffering knows that I and I only hold love blame,
at a time when two accomplices felt the same
A brief breeze during a feverish Roman August
foolish pride thwarted lost, what won, writhes lust,
whys are worn, days don’t pass, nights don’t end
Sextilis its name should’ve kept, allotting to transcend,
moods madness ‘neath moon’s tortuous tattletale’s
of September’s blighted face flurrying gust strewn gales
I now stand in a place of my own crowned in pearled onyx,
reborn upon the highest thrown, I drink fortitude’s tonic,
'till September’s sapphire emanates from melancholia,
here you come again, shattered dreams laden with insomnia
I SHUDDER TO THINK
I shudder to think about the way
Some vegetables are abused every day -
With physical and psychological slights
In gross violation of their vegetable rights.
Handicapped vegetables have no chance to fight back
Like eyeless potatoes - poor blind mites,
And baby carrots , aaw! Or peas-in-a-pod,
Eaten before they’re even born and take a breath.
Imagine those frantic runnerbeans
Desperately trying to escape.
No surprise that peas are strained.
My over-tired mum used to say, “Oh, I’m shredded.”
So I understand how tired shredded-cabbage must feel.
What about the potatoes who diced with death and lost?
Jerusalem Artichokes - “chokes” is horrible!
Why not “Jerusalem Passes Aways” ?
And ”Squash” ! - Please speak more politely:
What a way to go - we should say “Press Lightly”.
No wonder some clean-living veg are angry :
Parsnip - an angry snip from parson or clergy;
Swede resembling a tall blond person, Stockholm based;
With horrid ethnic humour ( bad taste)
Like sauerkraut (also bad taste)
(So-called humour about a surly German).
Look at insults basd on vegetables for a human -
“The IQ of a cabbage.” What ethnicity insults !
I’m sorry for tomatoes - all this veg talk results
In them being called a vegetable dish
It’s like calling Scots people English.
Sheer vegetable racism is the worst. Mixed potato and carrot salad?
Not in apartheid South Africa – their salad had to be pallid.
Oh yes some veg are spoiled like children :
Coddled cauliflower warmed in milk ; then
Brazed egg-plants (please call snobby ones aubergines)
Suntanned slowly at their leisure;
And butter (not margarine) beans cooked with pleasure.
It’s too horrible entirely, the abuse is complete
I’ll stop being vegetarian, and start eating meat.
Music echoes through the halls,
climbing stairs, and gilded walls.
Our lovely lass discreetly swoons.
With longing eyes, she scans the room.
Young ladies dressed, in gowns, divine,
are coifed, and rouged and powdered fine.
Their dancing partners, starched, refined,
drink them in like precious wine.
A rhythm, now, she can't define,
has moved her toes in quarter time.
With her laced up shoes, she taps the floor
to violins, plucked strings, and chords
This debutant, is a lonely child
who spent her days by the river side.
Ann is a budding rose among the wild.
in a ballroom filled with bright bouquets
of hopeful, blooms, in vast array.
There is giggled laughter, beguiling grins,
and we hear the Danube waltz, play again.
Politely, polished, bright young men
gather flowers, twirling them
until their skirts sail with the wind.
She blushes, rouged, with charm, beguiling,
and hopes for partners, dashing, smiling.
She flutters a fan to cool her face
and closes eyes, a song embraced.
She sits awhile, with private dreams
She keeps her secret dream alive
Abides her time, and thinks it seems
a fantasy, she has contrived.
But then, she feels his gentle tap
He stands before her very eyes
and takes her hand, now from her lap
Deep in her magic dreamer's trance
Ann wakes, to look upon the prince
Who glides away with her upon
The ballroom floor, ......where they are one,
until the strike of midnight comes
_____________________________________________________
Fairytale Contest: Sponsor Alexis Y
Hometown: Riverside
Middle name: Ann
Another Christmas day is finally here
The very thought fills me with such fear
I have to try and control my old Aunty Mable
Once she hits the gin she gets very unstable
Uncle Arthur rushes in and opens the sherry
then sups half the bottle and gets really merry
He begins to sing carols at the top of his voice
I put up with the din… I don’t have much choice!
The last to arrive are old Gladys and Bert
Bert always wears his distasteful Santa shirt
Gladys walks through the door and starts to moan
I wish Bert would leave the old cow at home!
She whines from the moment she removes her coat
And heads for the sofa and grabs the remote
Demanding she has her dinner on her knee -
There’s some crap on the TV that she wants to see
I politely tell Gladys the dinner table is set
And the film will be repeated of that you can bet
So she sits at the table and picks at her starter
then moans very loudly to poor Uncle Arthur
The table’s soon laden with wonderful food
But Gladys is seething, she’s so blinking rude
She says the turkey’s tasteless and it's bone dry
So I pass her the gravy and I try not to cry
Bert finishes the bowl of chestnuts and sprouts
He’ll be passing foul wind in copious amounts
After rich figgy pud he crams in six mince pies …
It’s no wonder he’s gross with huge wobbly thighs
They descend on me each and every year
And eat all my food my wine and my beer
Then we open the gifts that lie under the tree
As per usual they bring just one present for me
Gladys has knitted me a horrendous jumper
it's two sizes too large, I just want to thump her
I dutifully put in on and I feign my delight …
but it will be in the rubbish bin later tonight!
At three we watch The Queen on the telly
Bert’s farting begins; the room gets so smelly
Within minute’s they’re snoring away in their chair
I retreat to the kitchen and silently swear
By the time they wake up all the dishes are done
The doorbell rings; thank god their taxi has come!
This is the LAST time they'll take advantage of me …
Cos I've booked a yule cruise on the Caribbean sea!
Fiction write
12/14/17
She stands invisible to any fair go,
Mentally bashed to a paste,
In a world where she is not wanted,
Where she is simply erased,
Where none of her self is accepted by men,
Women distrust her as well,
Where she is politely told to vanish,
To crawl back into her shell,
She’s been beaten and bashed and raped by angry,
Pushed to the fork in the road,
This academically gifted heart beating girl,
Has been pushed right out to the cold,
She believes what folks whisper about her,
She believes the things that they say,
She believes she doesn’t fit into this world,
That she’s defective because she is gay.
Life greeted Death
with an epoch
from the depths of dusk
with a dawn,
the sun rose lucid
with it's soft spotted infant rose
now awake,
hanging heavily harnessed
in the steaming swaying sky,
the sun's aura
lit the sands of the silent Sahara
liked an aged ocean of butterscotch beauty,
and the starch strung clouds
maneuvored like vanilla lace
avalanching outward
kissing the hips of the woven horizon,
my sight probed to ponder
the powdered blue glow
of the desperate distance,
where the shadows
of the dune's palms
insult the posture
of the ivory sanctuary
that sat balanced for sake of Bethlahem,
I sat megerly meditating,
watching the subtle creases
in the Meditterraniean Sea absorb the sliced brass shingles
that weave the waters wealthy,
as the morning properly transcended Westward
manipulating nature's maturity
by rambling roughly to the seas
for wandering waves of bolted blooms of blue
for the twinkle of a jewel
which sits on a stool as a star
as far as North,
soon the violet velocity of night
approached the set,
electrifying the ending day,
and the Sister of the Sun
landed on the sky's chest
like a sheild on a knight,
as I listened lightly
the Moon politely announced,that evening is back to stack
the black symphony -
J.A.B.
You live in terror
Of an enemy
That you feel you can’t hide from
And that you cannot see
You live in fear
Of a murderous curse
Also known as cancer, a tumor
Or worse.
You believe in something
Called Chemotherapy
With a 2% chance
Of living happily
Have you heard of the things?
You could do to prevent
Such a terrible illness
Such a terrible event
Cancer isn’t a death threat
But a dangerous foe
One that must be dealt with
With precision and woe
Do your research
Before you begin
With chemicals and radiation
That you have no idea in
Try alternate methods
That can cause no harm
Except to the cancer
And they work like a charm
I urge you politely
Say no to the fee
Of Radiation and chemicals
To Chemotherapy
where frozen embers still burn
my doctor says is a thing you earn
i ask him if it is a large mass
as he quietly looks up my ass
i politely tell him it is on this side not there
he says he is being thorough there a pair
true i guess though i'm sure one hangs lower
much lower than the other up and over
where frozen embers still burn
i thought had cleared up in my youth
i knew i shouldn't have slept with Ruth
i should have done an about turn
everyone warned me about her
in fact that's why i courted her
what they thought i should fear
sounded like music to my ear
i lost the other ear while i was out hunting
there's a frozen ember i still hear ringing
just then i hear the Doc yell with an echo
his face still behind me his mouth down low
its not your balls those are hemorrhoids
boy their big they must be on steroids
be sensitive there sir those are my parts
makes you want to release a couple of farts
where frozen hemorrhoids burn and hang
no woman should yearn to touch or bang
i'll get them removed my dear lassies
don't mind mine and i won't your falsies
if per chance this deep poetry i just penned
has got you hot and thinking of my tight end
where frozen embers still burn my heart is yours
a woman as special as you this old man adores